


Unbutton

by underwater_owl



Series: aktinovolia et al [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Crying, Domesticity, Dominance/submission, Fingering, Light Bondage, Not so light d/s, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, safe sane consensual, somehow this feels both more and less kinky than the tags are currently implying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underwater_owl/pseuds/underwater_owl
Summary: A sexy interlude in the dating life of Peter Nureyev and Juno Steel.  Peter cooked, so Juno gets the dishes.  Maybe one day he'll even finish them.This is intended to fit in to the other stories in the series but includes no plot details.  You can skip it if smut isn't your thing.  Or can read just it if it is!





	Unbutton

Peter makes a very nice vegetable casserole for dinner. Juno usually exists on a diet of cheap take out and peanut butter sandwiches, but he likes the way Peter looks while he’s cooking, all contemplative as he works with the kitchen knife. Juno sits in the livingroom and watches him out of the corner of his eye.

The food is delicious. It’s their first time sitting down properly to eat, not sharing a plate in a traumatized huddle on the sofa. Juno has to clear years of clutter off his tiny kitchen table to make space for two place settings. 

Apparently, Peter picked up a bottle of wine at the grocery store, and a couple of glasses of red, after the week he’s had, is enough to make Juno feel pleasantly warm.

“You cooked,” he reminds Peter, going to fill the sink, “I’ll get the dishes.”

The dishwasher has been broken for years now. Instead, he runs the water hot, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and reach his hands into the suds and scrub.

At first, Peter putters around behind him. He finishes clearing, then finds a container for the leftovers. He leans in over Juno to steal a little warm water and soap to get the casserole dish soaking, and Juno draws in a deep breath and smiles down at the dishwater. Peter towel dries enough dishes that what remains can fit by themselves in the drying rack, and then goes and finds his wine glass and stands with his back against the counter, keeping Juno easy company while he tackles the pot.

“You know, Juno,” he says, at one point, and then trails off when Juno looks up at him and smiles reflexively at the sight of his new glasses, which do in fact look very nice on him.

“What?” Asks Juno, after a couple of heartbeats, and Peter drains his glass in one last swallow, tilting his head back and setting it down with a click.

Juno resumes scrubbing, but feels his body go pleasantly tense as Peter Nureyev slips up behind him, hands coming to rest on Juno’s hips.

“Is this all right?” Peter checks, and Juno’s stomach turns pleasantly over. He looks down, aware that it’s dark enough outside that if he looks up, he’ll see Peter mirrored clearly in the reflection of the window, just a few inches away.

“It’s more than all right. But don’t you think I should finish this pot while the water’s hot?”

“Oh, please. Don’t let me interrupt.” Instructs Peter, as though he isn’t running his hands up Juno’s sides now, stepping in and pressing his chest against Juno’s back.

Juno has never cared less about a dish in his life, didn’t know he’d owned a casserole dish, would happily throw the damned thing out the window if he thought Peter would let him get away with it. Except that now he’s feeling stubborn. He attacks a particularly baked on bit with the steel wool, scrubbing furiously.

Peter has his hand inside Juno’s jeans before he even notices the thief has gotten his belt buckle and fly open. His hand slips, and suds splash up rather suddenly.

“Juno,” chides Peter, like someone who wants him to _succeed_ at what he’s doing, he honestly does. Juno finally looks up at the window and meets Peter’s eyes in the reflection.

Determined to kill him, apparently, Peter lifts the hand up out of Juno’s jeans, and licks, from his palm right to the tip of his fingers. It’s brusque and a little obscene, and it means when he reaches for Juno again and strokes his cock, the touch glides.

Juno shudders, just once, and abandons the casserole dish. He rinses quickly, getting the worst of the suds off, before grabbing the edge of the sink with both hands, while Peter starts to stroke his cock. The other man presses closer, nudging Juno’s legs a little wider apart with a knee and presses his hips up against him like he’d like to fuck, right here, right now, bent over the last of their dinner dishes.

When he looks up again, he sees it in Peter’s expression, how _easy_ Juno is, and how much he enjoys the things this does to him. Peter catches Juno looking, and stops what he’s doing for a moment, holding him firmly in hand while he jerks Juno’s pants down as far as his knees, baring him, tangling him up a little more, as though there was any chance Juno was going to try to escape. It tears an embarrassing whimper out of him, which only makes Peter chuckle, low and warm and at Juno’s expense but only in that very pleasant way that lights him up inside and makes him struggle to spread his legs for it.

Sometimes a lady needs unbutton, just a little.

He wishes he were still responsible for the dish, had to hold his hands still in the sink. He doesn’t want to be allowed to move, he realizes, and blurts out, before his better reasoning can prevail;

“Tie my wrists up.”

Peter goes still. Juno glances up at the reflection again and sees him contemplating Juno fondly. There’s an almost lazy look in his eye, something complicated and fond and predator. Juno bites hard on his bottom lip and doesn’t take it back, trusting himself into Peter Nureyev’s hands.

He doesn’t disappoint. Peter spreads a hand on the small of Juno’s back, expecting him to _hold still,_ then he bends, and has Juno’s belt out of the loops with a few quick jerks.

The hand on his back slides up, up Juno’s body, and takes him gently by the throat, lifting him up to stand. Even drawn up tall like this, with his chin tilted back, he can’t quite rest against Peter’s shoulder.

“What’s your safeword?” Peter asks, holding Juno up, practically on his toes, looking down into his face, arm straying loosely around his body so he can make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Nebula,” answers Juno, heart beating so fast that for a second his eye goes crazy, shoes him Peter Nureyev in glowing theta and then as a series of lightening fast imagines from wanted posters, mug shots, and APBs from across the galaxy.

Peter smiles, and lets him down again, but just so he can grab Juno by the elbows and pull his arms behind his back.

The belt loops around his forearms, in the end, tying them crossed so that if he wanted, each hand could clutch the opposite elbow. Mostly Juno doesn’t bother, lets them hang, just focusing on hanging on to what’s left of his self-control. Peter has him step out of his jeans and turns him around. He holds Juno by the throat again, barely asserting any pressure while his hand slides back onto his cock and a knee pushes between Juno’s legs. Juno can’t look away from him, feels transfixed by the self-assuredness of him while Peter just casually takes him the fuck apart.

When he thinks he can’t possibly last one second more, Peter, bastard that he is, pulls his hand away and stops completely. Juno moans, furious and indignant, and chases after his hand just enough that Peter’s hand presses at his throat, nudging him back.

Then, he’s down. Peter moves him gently and firmly, guiding him to bend over and rest his cheek and shoulders on the counter. He feels the quick, professional touch to his hands, checking his circulation, and the small adjustment of the belt.

He hears the cap of a bottle opening, and just knows that Peter must have had lube in one of his pockets, and then there’s a finger pressing up against and inside him, slick and insistent and still so knowing. Juno shudders, and leans a little more fully into the countertop, biting his bottom lip and wishing he could see him, but settling for spreading his legs and arching his back. Apparently his body remembers how to do this better than he does.

“Oh, Juno,” breathes Peter, and crooks his finger, finding Juno’s prostate and chuckling again at the helpless sound Juno makes, “Juno, Juno, you’re exquisite when you’re like this. Well, you’re exquisite all the time, darling, but there’s something so exceptionally lovely about you when you’re getting just what you need.”

What he wants, and what Peter is already giving him, before he can even ask, is a second finger inside him along with the first. Then a third, while it’s still almost, _nearly_ too much, where Juno has to work to take it, has to gasp and arch against the counter.

“That’s right,” says Peter, “take it for me, Juno.”

His fingers begin to pump, and Juno’s hips rock in time. It stops hurting before it ever really had the chance to start. It’s just pressure, good and sweet and inescapable, making Juno’s body sing. 

He wants to come, is desperately sure he _will_ come, tries to warn Peter with a soft sound. Peter slows, kissing along his shoulders and giving Juno a few moments to come back from the edge. Then Peter spits into his palm, quick and vulgar, and nothing like you _should_ treat a lady- but when he reaches for Juno’s cock again he finds he can’t muster a single complaint. 

Juno doubles over, mouthing a silent howl against the countertop. Peter pauses, just long enough to reach up and give one of his nipples a teasing little pinch through his t-shirt, then the game starts all over again. 

It goes on until he’s sobbing, chanting a filthy litany against the countertop of _yes, please, Peter, fuck me, oh God._ Peter is bent over him, breath warm, teeth sharp against the shell of Juno’s ear. His fingers curl like he can wring pleasure out of Juno by force, and Juno is sure his eyes roll back for a second- another flash of purple and neon from the cybernetic eye. 

“Le roi s’amuse,” purrs Peter, heaving him back up to standing by the hair, and chuckling at what he sees in Juno’s reflection in the windowpane.

Juno ends up trying to escape now, trusting Peter not to let him. By increments, they sink down the counter together. Eventually he makes a sideways lunge for freedom and Peter scoops him into his arms, spins him against his chest, and holds him trapped there. 

He bullies Juno shamelessly back against the cabinetry, stroking his cock and digging his nails in ever so slightly to the nape of Juno’s neck when he squirms. Juno tries to go backwards, and inadvertently traps himself into the countertop corner where Peter can crowd in against him and hold him up easily while Juno writhes.

From there the only way left to try is down. Inevitably Juno’s knees give and he slips limply towards the floor. Peter follows, guiding Juno down safely into a sprawl on the tile on his belly, and ends up settling over him like a lazy jungle cat. Everything stops, but just while Peter is undoing the belt, and that’s just so he can roll Juno flat onto his back and settle overtop of him again with another filthy, pleased murmur.

Juno feels manhandled, feels like a _ragdoll,_ feels himself get just a little more wild for the thought.

“Little more?” Peter checks, after a long kiss, and adds, “brave thing, lovely lady. Can you take just a little more?”

As though Juno could do anything but nod and spread his knees. His heel drums against the floor, as Peter’s index finger presses in deep and demands of him.

It ends, at last, when Juno is crying openly, clawing weakly at the floor tiles, too exhausted to move. Peter drives four fingers into him hard enough that Juno’s body rocks. Juno’s knee, which had ended up braced up on Peter’s shoulder, slips down weakly as the edges of the world just fade out, ever so slightly.

At the centre of it all he’s aware of the imperious curve of Peter’s smile when he speaks a command that buzzes in Juno’s ears as an indistinct blur. 

It just sneaks up and takes him gradually, a building keen that turns at last into a deep spasm, one that snaps his head back against the floor like an electric shock. It’s perfect, and agonizing, and endless, and in the distance he hears Peter moan a soft laugh.

After that everything is very quiet. The pain, and shame, and anxiety, it’s all just- removed. At bay. It’s just Juno, the sound of his own breathing, and Peter Nureyev, cradling him close and murmuring indistinctly to him while he floats.

There’s a vague period of travel between the floor and the bed. A damp cloth, cleaning him up, and a glass of water held against his mouth, but the next time Juno is really truly lucid they’re both under the duvet, and his cheek is on Peter’s shoulder. One arm has gone to sleep, that’s what makes him sit up and shift, making a groggy sound as he rolls over onto his back.

“Back with me, Juno?”

Asks Peter, in the dark, propping himself up on his elbows and reaching to run the tip of his thumb down the bridge of Juno’s nose.

“Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” Juno wonders, thick tongued and still a little muzzy, honestly, but happy to make Peter laugh. The other man rolls over in the dark, moving to rest his cheek against Juno’s stomach. By habit, Juno reaches down to card his hair, and smiles at him, though he probably can’t see it.

“Thank you.”

“Kitten, it was my pleasure,” promises Peter, face bright and open and as radiant, supportive and adoring as anyone has ever looked at him. This is probably because Peter often forgets, that when he can’t see Juno, Juno can often still see him. Juno feels a little guilty about it but doesn’t point it out _right_ now. Not when his expression is so open and lovely, not when he’s looking up at Juno like he’s the best thing that ever happened. He’ll just continue to cherish the little moments of adoration in the dark.

Juno just swallows and surrenders back into the lassitude that comes after exceptionally good sex with someone who loves you. He keeps playing with Peter’s hair.

“Pot can soak until morning.”

Again, Peter laughs, soft and content, and Juno feels like just about the luckiest lady in the whole galaxy.


End file.
